


Something Pink

by FictionPenned



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alex asked why we even have this lever, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21892867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: An enigmatic smile returns to his face. “That is up to you. Will you be a predator?” As he speaks, he draws her hand to his face yet again, but this time, he plants a kiss on the center of her palm. “Or will you be prey?”Worry flutters in her ribcage. She does not wish to be complicit in his actions, does not wish to be seen as anything but a victim, should they be caught, but she knows that he will not accept silence as an answer. “One’s position in the food chain is not determined by the individual, rather, it is dictated by the ecosystem that surrounds them.”He remains unfazed by her protestations. “I know what you were born to be. I saw it in you that day when you called for my help. You knew me well enough to know what I could do for you, and you did not hesitate to view me as an equal. An antelope would not trust a lion with its life.”
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Something Pink

It is still raining when the plane touches down in Paris. It is a different rain than had fallen in Baltimore, but it is near enough in both angle and intensity that for a brief moment, Bedelia cannot help but wonder if they had even left. Such thoughts are, of course, ridiculous, but in a matter of hours, her entire world had been upended. After months spent in hiding, she had finally confronted the twin pressures of greed and fear and held Hannibal at gunpoint, demanding that he indulge her impulses. There is no denying that it had been an unwise decision, however, there is no turning back now. 

Hannibal barely looks at her as they depart the plane and stride through the airport, stopping only so that he might buy an umbrella. He pays for it with a credit card that is undoubtedly not his own name. She wonders whether he had imagined one — cobbling it together from ancient gods or leaders that he admired — or if he had merely snatched the identity of a victim that had long since been laid to rest. Given what she knows of him, either option seems equally likely, though she desperately hopes that the former is true. His egocentrism and god-like desire to influence and manipulate those around him is familiar to her. She has been aware of those tendencies ever since they had first brushed shoulders at a gala in New York. The cannibalism is still bracingly and disturbingly novel. 

Naturally, she had harbored some suspicions before he had permitted her to have that first true glimpse behind the veil. Food was highly ritualistic to him. He constantly offered his culinary skills to those around him, constantly referred to it in conversation, constantly gazed upon the lips of those who dared to try his creations. She had assumed it was a possessive act of communion, a manner in which he bound people to him in the desperate hope that he might not be abandoned. As the consummate professional, she had dodged his offers until the very moment that he had appeared at her door, self-invited and with dishes in hand. Tentatively, she had indulged him, and in doing so, she had sensed the atmosphere change. He became more open and less distant, however, his attempts to prod and mold her became ever more pronounced, yet she still resisted that influence up until the moment that she had offered him her resignation. After that, her fate had been placed in the hands of the F.B.I., and they had failed her. Bringing her back to him was the worst thing they could have done. 

  
Bedelia likes to think that she could have lived out her entire life without seeing Hannibal again if she had not been dragged back into his sphere of influence. Perhaps it could have even been true, but she was not allowed the chance to find out. Instead, she had been placed in a position in which she had to choose between her safety and her thirst for knowledge, and she had tossed all caution aside. Regret over that decision has only just begun to seep into her bones. No doubt it will multiply as time wears on — if, indeed, Hannibal permits her to live that long. 

  
When they emerge into the night air, she braces her shoulders against the cold. Hannibal opens the umbrella and shields them from the worst of the rain. Still, he neither speaks to nor looks at her. If he is waiting for her to ask a question and break the silence, he is going to be sorely disappointed. She has only one question, and she doubts that he is willing to share the answer.  _ Are they dead? _

He holds the door for her as she climbs into the taxi before he circles around to the other side, offering the driver an address that she does not recognize. She wonders if it’s a hotel, or if he had prepared a safe house for moments like this. Surely not. A man like Hannibal would assume that he would never get caught, even when he engaged the police in an increasingly aggressive flirtationship.    
  
She spends several long minutes staring at the window and her clasped hands in turn, desperately attempting to keep her mind from wandering. She must remain present, must not allow herself to lose her awareness amidst worried preoccupations. For all that effort, she is unsuccessful. Somehow she does not notice that Hannibal’s attention has turned to her until a request breaches the air between them, quiet and firm.    
  
“May I have your phone, mon cœur?”

She blinks once, surprised, before reaching into her handbag and sliding her phone free, passing it to him without comment. Until he slips the device into his breast pocket, she does not assume that he planned to take it from her. Why would she? It had been her idea to travel with him, not his. However, she now painfully aware that she is to be his hostage.    
  
A sound of protest leaves her mouth, shaped like the beginning of his name.   
  
“Ha —”   
  
He does not allow her to finish before his mouth descends upon hers, halting even the very thought of protest. It has been some time since they have indulged in such desires. There had been one stolen kiss in a hallway of an opera once, but ever since he had expressed interest in becoming her patient, they have remained respectfully distant, crossing the lines of professional courtesy only to share the occasional glass of wine, or stage a scene of self-defense in the wake of a brutal murder. He tastes of wine and blood, and she catches her eyes drifting closed. She is intoxicated, and she wonders how she had abstained from such physicality for so long.    
  
However, she is still keenly aware that she is being manipulated. The very notion stirs fear and resentment in the pit of her stomach, dulling the edge of her passion.    
  
When they part, a smirk settles upon his lips and a sigh tumbles from hers. They lock eyes for only a moment, each searching for answers and reassurance within those of the other, before he looks away again, turning his eyes towards the front of the car, tracking the windshield wipers as they move from one side to the other.   
  
“Be careful what you say. One never knows when Benedick or Beatrice may be in the next room.”   
  
A pause falls between them as her fingers flick against the stale air of the car, considering how far she dares go with her reply. She wishes to press him without invoking anger. A moment later, she settles on a continuance of the metaphor. “In this particular moment, the pair would be making ado about something.”

She steals a glance and sees his smile deepen for the briefest second before it is swept away, and his face is once again obscured by the veil that he wears.    
  
“They would indeed.”   
  
His gaze turns back to her, and he reaches out a beckoning hand. It takes Bedelia a moment to figure out what it is that she wants. When she does, she tentatively places her hand in his. Thoughtfully, he raises it to his nose, absorbing what he can. She is aware of his heightened sense, though she remains skeptical of its extent. His psyche may be unusual, but he is still biologically human.   
  
“You still smell of Crawford,” he comments, lowering both his voice and their hands. As he speaks, his fingers begin to work the muscles of her palm, sensing her tension.    
  
A single eyebrow arches in the form of an unspoken question. “I expect that you have seen him more recently than I.”   
  
A noncommittal hum buzzes past his lips, so quiet that she almost does not hear it above the whine of the engine and the patter of the rain outside. After a moment, he follows it with something in the vague shape of a confession. “Should we ever return, it will be difficult to lift the stains from the floor of my pantry.”   
  
It is the first glimpse piece of information that he has offered her regarding the events that had occured before she had discovered him in her home, and it emboldens her to inquire further. “Were there others?”   
  
“Perhaps,” he returns to being cryptic. Bedelia wonders if he is intentionally withholding information from her, or if he is merely worried about what the driver may overhear. She will find out whenever they reach their intended destination. “There was an addition to my doorstep, as well.”   
  
Surprise lifts her voice. “Will?” Heeding the warning that he had sealed with his kiss, she does not lend her voice to the man’s surname.    
  
“No.” His fingers still work through her tendons, though they dig somewhat more roughly than they had a moment ago.   
  
Names run through her mind as she shifts through the names of bother friends and enemies, attempting to figure out who else might have wandered into his apartment while he was caught in a bloody frenzy and found themselves in the line of fire. Dr. Bloom, perhaps. Bedelia has been aware of the woman’s relationship with Hannibal for some time now. Personally, she despises the cliché of students-turned-lovers, but such developments are unsurprising. Charismatic and passionate people have a tendency to gravitate towards each other, regardless of what others may think of them. It would be a shame, truly, to rob their field of such a talented academic, though she can see why such a thing would be necessary.    
  
Almost reflexively, she falls back into the cadence that she has used with him on Tuesday afternoons, while they discussed both his history and the present day, seeking to quell the burning pressure of the working mind. “Change is often difficult. Do you grieve for those that have been left behind?”    
  
His hands stop moving, but he does not allow her hand to fall, keeping her anchored to him as he speaks. “I am no longer your patient, doctor.”   
  
Another question is quick on the heels of his answer. “Then what are you?”   
  
An enigmatic smile returns to his face. “That is up to you. Will you be a predator?” As he speaks, he draws her hand to his face yet again, but this time, he plants a kiss on the center of her palm. “Or will you be prey?”   
  
Worry flutters in her ribcage. She does not wish to be complicit in his actions, does not wish to be seen as anything but a victim, should they be caught, but she knows that he will not accept silence as an answer. “One’s position in the food chain is not determined by the individual, rather, it is dictated by the ecosystem that surrounds them.”   
  
He remains unfazed by her protestations. “I know what you were born to be. I saw it in you that day when you called for my help. You knew me well enough to know what I could do for you, and you did not hesitate to view me as an equal. An antelope would not trust a lion with its life.”   
  
Bedelia doesn't know how to reply. She spends much of her time drowning thoughts of that day with bottles upon bottles of wine, resorting to increasingly stronger liquor on days when it haunts her dreams. She had not known what she had done to her patient until she had found her arm down his torso. That is why she blames her actions on Hannibal. He must have engineered the situation, must have planted the idea in her head, must have edged Neil towards that perilous edge, must have known that she had no one else to call but  _ him _ . Even now, she is acutely aware of the dryness that gnaws at the back of her throat, begging for the comfort that only a glass of fine wine can provide.    
  
She is saved from providing an answer only by the taxi pulling up to the curb of their destination, though she has no doubt that Hannibal will pursue the topic further once he has her alone and has had enough time to coax her out of her armor. He pays the taxi driver and then steps out of the car, grabbing their bags from the trunk and slinging them over her shoulders before stepping around to her side of the car, offering her the comforting protection of the umbrella. He closes the door behind her with a snap.    
  
The taxi speeds off, leaving a trail of red-lit mist in its wake. 

For the first time since they had fled, the pair is completely alone. 

“Welcome to your new home, Bedelia.”


End file.
